Googol Boy and the peculiar incident of the Great Quiz Trophy by John Michael (classic books for 13 year olds txt) 📕

remaining couple of lessons of the day were a blur of dullness and dreariness. First, there was a History lesson with Miss Fremskey, whose sole aim in life seemed to be to bore us to tears and, mind you, she was doing a fantastic job. Her droning monotone recital of the Declaration of Independence was like listening to an old aunt going on and on about her thimble collection. All I remember was something about “the pursuit of happiness,” all the rest was a blur of indistinguishable words and, to be honest, I think I was caught in a time warp because the lesson refused to end.

It seemed that Miss Fremskey’s superhero power (actually, make that supervillain power) was to make time freeze − it was amazing how the present came to a complete standstill while she was teaching us about the past. I glanced at Barney and his face looked like it had turned to stone, he was slightly cross-eyed and had a bit of drool escaping from the corner of his mouth. He was not alone, from the looks on the other students’ faces, it was obvious that “the pursuit of happiness” did not apply when one was in Miss Fremskey’s class.

By the halfway mark of the lesson, every student had completely zonked out but that didn’t stop Miss Fremskey from cranking it up a notch and fatiguing everybody into oblivion. She started to go on about her own lack of ‘happiness’ and how she was unappreciated and then went on some rant about the enslavement of teachers, low wages, how she couldn’t feed her cats and that she was six months behind in her rent. She finished her outburst by stressing that every teacher should be rewarded according to their abilities, and provided for according to their needs, and then, rather oddly, she mentioned the stolen orphanage money and questioned whether theft is really stealing if it is used to buy bread for the starving.

Suddenly, the alarm bells started ringing. Could Miss Fremskey have been behind the burglary? I looked around for some corroboration but it seemed that I was the only one left in the classroom who was semiconscious − bummer! So much for having a few witnesses to validate my suspicions.

“Barney?” I whispered.

There was no response from Barney, he looked like he had fallen into a deep coma.

“Barney... wake up!” I whispered louder.

bellowed Miss Fremskey.

“Yes miss?” I answered meekly.

“Were you talking Footsmell?”

“No miss.”

“But I saw your lips moving!”

“Yes miss.”

“So, you were talking!”

“I was just telling Barney what an amazing lesson this is miss.”

“Stop your buffoonery you little worm, do you think that I came down in the last shower?”

“Yes miss, I mean no miss.”

“Do you want a life-time of detentions Footsmell?”

“No miss.”

“Then zip it... and pay attention!”

“Sorry miss.”

That Miss Fremskey certainly wasn’t my favourite teacher! My imagination ran wild and I pictured Fremskey in prison stripes with a ball and chain around her ankle as she was forced to break rocks − after all the times she called me ‘Footsmell’ it was the least she deserved. There had to be someway of tying her to the burglary − she was certainly hefty enough to bulldoze through that foyer door, her moral scruples were questionable at best, and she undoubtedly needed the money and probably picked up the trophy as a bonus prize. There was definitely cause for some suspicion and I would trust Miss Fremskey as far as I could throw her (enough said).

I looked up at her to see if there was something in her expression which would give her away − I needed some sign of guilt. Anything. I studied her carefully but trying to find signs of moral conscience in Miss Fremskey was like looking for fleas on a flea-bitten dog — they were everywhere. So it was back to the drawing board − circumstantial evidence would not be enough to incriminate her but that didn’t mean she was off the hook. I would certainly have to give this matter further thought and if Fremskey had to be locked away, it was a sacrifice that I was willing to make. I was deep in thought about Fremskey getting 50 years to life (with an extra 20 years for all those times she called me Footsmell) when the bell finally rang.

Our next lesson was English with Mr Van der Hoosen. At this stage our spirits had already been crushed by Miss Fremskey and it was always going to be an uphill battle for the teacher to spark some energy into the last lesson of the day. Of course, it didn’t help that he started off the class with a spelling test, and then followed through with some grammar exercises. He did, however, keep the best for last with his recital of soppy 19th century love poetry − I guess one the perks of being a teacher was that you always had a captive audience at your fingertips. You could tell that Mr Van der Hoosen was really passionate about the poems as he pranced around the classroom reading out lines like “where true love burns desire is love's pure flame” and “I love thee as I love the tone of some soft-breathing flute.”

It was great that the teacher was so excited and energetic but, for the rest of the class, poetry about burning love and breathless flutes had as much relevance as a snorkel on a goldfish. Halfway through the lesson Barney turned to me. “If this is supposed to be English, why can’t I understand a word the teacher is saying?” He then plonked his head on the table in despair. Mr Van der Hoosen was so caught up in the moment that he failed to realise that the rest of the students were as lively as a bunch of snails on ice. The only thing we were concerned about was the clock on the wall, as we counted down the seconds to freedom.

When